


A1

by Azzandra



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Beforus, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:04:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzandra/pseuds/Azzandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>12 stories about the Beforan ancestors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Initiate

You've been watching her for a while now.

It's not your intent to be getting your peepers up where they don't belong on people what don't want them none, but in your defense, you were chilling on this riverbank long time afore she brought her pretty behind in your neighborhood.

You don't even notice her until she's probably already been around for a while.

She reminds you of a meowbeast, which is probably what she's all up and intending to pretend to be. You watch her stalking through the tall grass. She can't see you, on account of her having her back to you (which is how you'd gotten yourself a proper appreciation for its relative attractiveness), but you recognize the way she moves, the slow, deliberate movement, the way she freezes when the featherbeasts on the bank turn their beady seeing orbs in her direction. It's the way meowbeasts hunt, right down to the little booty scooch they do before pouncing.

She jumps out so suddenly, you make a startled noise, but then, so do the three or so waterfowl she's just jumped. They make a right racket, the two that fly away, but moreso the one the little meowbeast troll has caught.

It flaps its featherstilts furiously and makes a loud honking, but the troll twists the beast's neck and everything up and goes quiet all of a sudden.

She rears up all proud as pie with the featherbeast 'tween her fangs, and startles you not very little when she turns her face to you and scowls. She's got the teal blood of the featherbeasts on her lips, but she looks about as scary as a baby chick.

She drops the featherbeast and gets up on her feet, hostile and flushed green. You can't see a sign on her from here, though if you did, it would probably be as lush green as her pretty flush, and you can also see that her clothes are torn up and threadbare, like she ain't been having anything new to wear in a while. You wonder at that, and at the nest of uncombed hair from which two pointy horns poke out, but you're not in any position to be judging a sister on looking unkempt. Combs done given up on you a long time ago, and you don't take very good care of yourself as you might.

You do wonder at her sunken cheeks and her skinny arms. That shit is something any motherfucker with a conscience should get his wondering on about when he sees it going down before him.

She stands there maybe a few seconds, before she picks up the featherbeast and bolts. She doesn't get down on all fours again, she just splits, disappearing in the underbrush.

You come back there the next few nights, but she doesn't return as far as you can tell. Or maybe if she's still prowling, it's not when you get your happening around there. You got your nights filled with schoolfeeding the way the green sister probably has it filled with the chasing of regular troll feeding.

Elder Siltroot gets his notice on that you're swelling with impatience, but he don't mention anything. He lets you bail early from your lessons, seeing as you've never been much a problem student until now. The other initiates give you strange looks, like they're thinking 'what's up with this motherfucker, ain't he been eating scripture and shitting piety up until this point? What's got him twisted up nowanights?' And would that you could answer the motherfuckers, but you can't even answer yourself, because you're asking the same question of yourself and you're just as much of a fucking mystery as you are to them.

You just go to the riverbank every night, spend every moment of your free time watching the wending waters and swaying grass, hidden all up in the underbrush like a motherfucking daycreeper waiting to snag a defenseless wriggler. But you got patience when it comes to this, look at all the motherfucking patience you been saving up and cheating Elder Siltroot out of.

All that patience pays up one night a week later, and pays in excess of what you might be wanting.

You're hidden up in your spot, waiting for kittytroll, staring like a fool in the wrong way while deep in meditation, which is why you don't even get your notice on that you're being hunted until you're already getting your face ground into the dirt and the troll sister's knee prodding your innards hard through your back.

“State your purrpose!” she hisses. She's got a voice a tad bit too squeaky for authority, but then again, she's got her knee to do the proper talking when she presses down on your poor abused organsacks.

“Ain't got one, sister, can't a motherfucker just be hanging out by a body of water on a fine night?” you say.

She grinds your face a little harder in the dirt—well, you've got that shit coming to you, ain't that right? Elder Siltroot always did tell you that lies taste foul on the honest troll's tongue, but you didn't expect he's been meaning it all so literally.

You spit out the dirt and cough.

“Alright, alright, I yield, you got me motherfucking pegged. I was here getting my wait on for you.”

“Why?” she demands, and her claws be tightening a bit more in your hair.

“I thought—I thought the other night, what a motherfucking crock, that some trolls should be having all they need and double that, so it goes to waste, while others should go be needing at least half that and not having it. I thought, my fine sister, that you should not be scrounging like a beast of the woods when the good troll god gave you flat feet to be walking the earth like the rest of us. And I thought, well, this is a motherfucking simple fix we've got here, alls I got to do is take from him that got more and give to her that got less, and so I brought enough that what might have been a meal for me might be a meal for you, if you're getting my point.”

She's quiet for a few moments, whether because she doesn't believe you or because she's trying to figure out your words, but she removes her knee from the pit it has no doubt dug into your back by now.

“I don't need your food, I can hunt for myself,” she replies eventually.

“Truth spoken, my sister, truth spoken. I did get my gander on last time and I saw a thing of majesty. But not even a majestic meowbeast would refuse a good meal on account of pride, would she?”

This seems to have decided her, because she releases your hair and moves back from you some. She picks up the bag next to you and steps back far enough that you wouldn't be able to make a grab at her without her seeing you at it. She sits on her heels, ready to spring, and looks in the bag, frowning.

It's not a lot of food, if you are to be honest. It's only your dinner for the night. You were going to eat it if she wasn't going to be appearing, as you've done the nights before. But when she sniffs at it, and then she pulls out a grubloaf, you can see that it's a feast to her. You wonder again at how long she's been by her lonesome. No lusus that you've noticed, though she looks old enough to go without, but no clan markings either.

Now you wonder at if she's going to abscond with bag and all, but her face twists in suspicion at you (she's gone and got a cute face, too, not meant for showing the bad feelings. Her nose is particularly winsome, in your opinion.)

“How do I know it's not poisoned?” she asks, looking as stern and forbidding as a wildflower.

“Well,” you begin, an idea formulating in your mind, “then I could taste everything before you put it in your mouth, and then you'd know it's not poisoned on account I wouldn't be keeling over.”

She narrows her eyes at you, suspicious as ever.

“Fine! But you're not eating it all,” she huffs, and sits down across from you.

She breaks off a piece of grubloaf and hands it over to you. Obediently, you pop it into your mouth and chew and swallow it up, and even present the insides of your talkflap to her afterwards as proof you ate it honest.

She nods authoritatively at this, and then starts in on the grubloaf, ripping big bites into it, scarfing it down like she's expecting you to snatch it back any moment and she's planning on getting as much as she can down her foodsack where you wouldn't reach it.

You watch her, and she watches you and you watch each other for a while, albeit for differing motives. You don't dare to get speaking, on account of her being too busy eating to return the favor, but you think it's almost pleasant to be sitting nice with her, with the tinkling of the river nearby and the late dry season breeze through your hair.

She takes out the last food in the bag, a couple of fruit you threw in on top of your dinner, and then she throws you the bag. She backs up, still watching you, but before she bolts through the bushes she gives you a look all serious.

“Thank you fur the food,” she says solemn.

“Plenty more where that came from, sister, and I've got it to spare,” you reply.

She nods uncertainly, and then disappears. You wish you would have at least asked her her name.

 

*

 

You get that opportunity two night later, when she returns, though the fact that you get to asking doesn't mean she gets to answering.

You tell her your name is Gamzee, though. Gamzee Makara, if she wants to be getting her knowing on about it. This time she eats a bit slower and spits out a few words at you, but she absconds the second she fits the last crumb into her mouth.

 

*

 

It's only about the fourth time when she gets around to be telling you her name. It's Nepeta, and your bloodpusher swells at the syllables of it, like you ain't heard nothing sweeter even in hymns.

During the day, when you're bundled up nice in you 'coon, you whisper it to yourself, low so the other initiates don't be hearing it. Nepeta, Nepeta. Proper name for her, suits fine as anything.

You got your routine now, you bringing her food and she scarfing it down. You don't miss the meal yourself, it ain't like Elder Siltroot is starving you, and with a big lunch, you can make do. But you know she's gotten to relying on you, gotten used to your bringing it.

She doesn't abscond right away anymore, neither. She sits afterwards and licks her fingernubs like a meowbeast grooming herself, and it's a sight, it really is, to see her with her head slightly tilted, her eyes half-closed, licking her little gray tongue with that satisfied look on her face.

She sits back now sometimes, tells you some tidbits here and there. Tells of how she's always been on her lonesome, ever since she could remember, and how she's only ever met other trolls if they were wildlings like her. A while back, she also met an adult, a hermit, as far as you can tell, but how long ago or how close their acquaintance was, you can't guess.

Her lusus is dead and gone, died last wet season in a flood. You tell her that you just outgrew your lusus, that you left the shore when you were up and ready to do it and haven't seen him since, though you don't up and mention that you weren't much about seeing him even when you were making your hive by the sea, neither. You just tell her how you joined Elder Siltroot's clan and how he's schoolfeeding you on the common mysteries, on account of you've got a lot of living ahead of you and you need to be remembering them, for the wrigglers what ain't hatched yet.

You got no clue how old she might be, and she's got even less of one. You're guessing she's around your sweeps, but might be she's older than you and just tiny 'cause she ain't never ate decent growing up. Could also be she's younger and hasn't had a last growth spurt yet. Doesn't really matter all things considered, just a curiosity.

By the third week, you tell her everything that flies through your thinkpan at any given moment, and she listens and sometimes even tells you back some things. She still hunts, she says she can't be growing fat and complacent, but when she can, she comes and shows you her spoils. You remember the naked embarrassment when she first lies a carcass at your feet, because she's got an inkling this ain't how most trolls act, but you tell her it's fine.

When she does it, you start a fire and show her how to cook, which you're a dab hand at. She eats meat raw more often than not, 'less she finds somewhere to steal fire from, so she doesn't know all your tricks. You show her all the flavorful plants she can use, teach her the difference between them, ward her off the poisonous ones and explain how to use the ones what can cure sickness.

She takes to the lessons, and then she shows you how to hunt, too. She tries teaching you the careful slow step she uses, but you always end up tripping on your feet or moving at the wrong moment. She laughs when the featherbeast you were stalking flies off or the squeakbeast you were pouncing for turns out faster than you and scurries away when you're just mid-leap. You ain't got her patience or her grace or her speed for this stuff and that's all there is to be said.

She teaches you other things, though, secret things you think Elder Siltroot might even approve of you learning. How to tell when the weather turns, or how to find the places where little critters hide their food. What sounds beasts make and what those sounds mean. You write it down, all she's telling you, and then you learn that she's got a little knowledge of letters, but not near enough to how much a clan troll might by her age.

You spend some nights reading to her after that. She likes letters fine, but she likes the holy writings better. She likes the symbols, the glyphs, the secret drawings which you ain't strictly speaking supposed to be teaching to anyone who ain't an initiate already, but it isn't harming no one that she knows.

She likes it when you teach her the constellations. You tell her there's one called the Huntress, and it's a great meowbeast in the sky. You tell her you'll point it out to her when the sky turns and it starts showing up, and tell the the legend on top, and she's excited at the prospect, but it's still a while away.

You tell her about life in the clan, especially about your initiate fellows and the one motherfucker you've been waxing pitch for. She likes hearing about all the gossipy stuff, not that you can blame her with how alone she is in the wild. She likes especially to hear of their quadrants and their drama and by extension your own quadrants and your intended mates in every single one of them. She asks you about your heart square at one point, and you stammer like your mouth is full of slugs.

You turn the subject, ask her if she maybe wants to come back with you and join the clan and see all them motherfuckers up close, but she don't take to the idea the way you'd like. She likes other trolls fine, one or two at a time. She had maybe a handful of friends and even a quadrant or two filled over the sweeps. But she can't abide too many trolls at a time; makes her twitchy. Too loud, she says. You figure she's been alone so long she's got to get pretty cozy with herself, so you don't blame her for it.

Then you look up one night and you remember you promised to her a while back to tell her about the Huntress. You lie down on your back and you make her do the same next to you, and you point out every star, name it for her, show her the meowbeast shape.

She stares up, scoots over real close to you, so her head's on your shoulder, and follows your hand where it points.

“There's a story what they tell about her, too,” you say, nervous all of a sudden.

She turns on her side, leans her cheek against your shoulder. Her breath's warm that you can feel on your neck, and now your mouth is dry.

“Tell me the story,” she says softly.

“Sure thing, Nepsis,” you say, and you move your arm under your head so you're supporting it. It's only decent of you to make sure she's comfortable, you tell yourself.

You rattle it out for her, the way you heard Elder Siltroot tell it a million times before until it was drilled nice and well into your thinksponge. It comes easylike, even if you take one or two liberties along the way, and even if whenever the Huntress talks you make her sound like Nepeta. Cat puns didn't feature at all in any version of the story you heard, but now you think that maybe they should?

Then there's a barkbeast in the story you have talking like Elder Siltroot, and a cholerbear who sounds like your kismesis, a bit, and then, one by one, you're making a different voice for every character, so much so you even lose track of which voice you're making for who, and Nepeta has to correct you. She's really getting into it, doesn't miss a bit. She remembers all the tiny details what took you perigees to learn, and she asks questions like the wrigglers do during Elder Siltroot's lessons.

By the time you finish, it's almost dawn, and you need to leave, but before you go, Nepeta pulls on your sleeve.

“Gamzee, you didn't do anyone with a voice like you,” she points out.

“Figured you'd be sick already of hearing my voice, kittysister,” you laugh.

“Nooo, that's not true, you have the best voice!” she insists.

“Sister, there ain't nobody you've been hearing speak lately who ain't been me. You don't have any basis for comparison, you understanding my noise?”

She scrunches her nose at you, the cute way she does when she's annoyed.

“Don't argue with me,” she scolds, “learn to take a clawmpliment!”

You chuckle a bit and you promise that you will, but she's still not letting go of your sleeve.

“Gamzee,” she whispers, so you lower your head a bit to get closer and hear her better.

That's when she gets on her tippy-toes and plants a kiss right on your lips.

You flinch in surprise, and you notice that she's just as shocked looking as you are right about now. She looks like she's ready to abscond again, like she hasn't done in perigees, but you don't want that, so you do the first thing that comes to your thinkpan. You lean back down and kiss her back.

It's sloppy and hurried, because dawn is almost here, but she brings her arms around your neck and holds you in place, and then you pick her up, wrap her legs around your waist—she's such an itty thing, she weight almost nothing—and you kiss for a longer while than maybe you should have.

You're a bit singed by the time you arrive back at the clanhold, and you're betting she's a bit singed by the time she reaches her cave, but it doesn't matter none.

When you meet again the following night, you get your kissing started early.


	2. The Huntress

 

It's barely a perigee into the dark season, but the nights are already long and balmy and pleasant. You have time enough to teach your little cubs how to hunt together, the way you've seen the meowbeasts of the savannahs hunt a long time ago.

It's only a bit of fun for now. Their prey for tonight is a little nutbeast, and only about half the participants are taking this exercise as seriously as you are.

Of the five wrigglers, little Delric looks like he is trying the hardest. His face is scrunched up in concentration and yellowish sweat is beading on his forehead. He's five sweeps old, and as grave as if he were fifteen.

You can see from the branch you've perched yourself on that he's moving a little too fast, a little too suddenly, and all the others are taking their cues from him. The nutbeast is not yet aware of them, but it will be soon.

Someone steps on a twig, and the crack alerts the nutbeast. As you've taught them, your cubs freeze in place, standing completely still so the nutbeast won't notice them.

It's too late, though. The nutbeast scurries off anyway, and your cubs groan in disappointment. Delric looks positively crestfallen. Maripa flops to the ground dramatically, covering her face with her hands, and Liddin pulls on his hair in frustration.

“Engdar, you did it again!” Liddin yells at the smallest of the group, a sniffly brownblood only three and a half sweeps old. Liddin is only half a sweep older himself, but that never stopped him from scolding anyone.

“Liddin, shuuuuut uuuuup,” Maripa sighs, not moving from her spot on the ground.

“We should try with something else,” Delric suggests. “A grazebeast?” he asks, looking up at you.

You jump down from the tree, neat and soundless, and you shake your head firmly. “No! If you can't catch a little nutbeast, a grazebeast is going to trample you!”

“But I've seen clans raise grazebeasts,” Liddin says. “I've seen, I've seen! My hive was near the meadows where the clans have their grazing grounds, and there was one troll to a dozen, so how dangerous can they be?”

“Have you ever seen one up claws?” you ask, crossing your eyes and giving Liddin a stern look.

“No?” Liddin frowns.

“Then you don't know how hard they _bite_!” You punctuate this remark by pouncing on Liddin and making growling noises.

Liddin shrieks with laughter and attempts to escape your grasp, and then all the other wrigglers start laughing. Even Maripa gets up from the ground and cracks a smile.

“My lusus was a grazebeast,” comes a frail voice. Complete silence replaces the laughter.

You all look to the little green-blooded girl. Rimani doesn't talk much. You've barely heard her say three words since the day you pulled her out of the water.

“I'm sorry,” you say, putting Liddin down. “Mine was a meowbeast.”

“Yeah, we kinda figured,” Liddin scoffs. Delric hushes him.

“She died in a flood too,” you add, and this is the point when Engdar bursts into tears, to everyone (including Rimani's) surprise.

Rimani shifts awkwardly on her feet and, being closest, pats Engdar on the back in what she is probably hoping is a soothing manner. Engdar leans into her touch, and then opens his arms in a demand to be hugged. Rimani obliges. You make a note of the pale overtones in the interaction. You already suspected there was something there, and it's nice to have confirmation.

“Mine was a featherbeast,” Maripa says. “She flew away when the floods came.”

Now all your cubs are sad. This will not do.

You know you are no replacement for a lusus. You know that you are not even a proper replacement for a clan! But when the floods came, the clan was away from their brooding grounds and their mother grub, and by extension, away from the wrigglers who made their hives around the brooding caverns. You were the only one who took notice when their hives were swept away by the waters, and you were the only adult able to help.

You look up at the sky. You wish you could see the Huntress. Gamzee was far away now, gone to wherever his clan was this time of the sweep. If you'd accepted his proposal and followed the clan in their migration, you'd be together... but then your cubs would be dead now. Maybe Gamzee was right. Maybe there were such things as miracles and providence and destiny.

“Have I ever told you the story of the Huntress?” you ask suddenly, and all your cubs are now looking at you with interest, albeit in various states of dampness.

“Is it a sad story?” Engdar asks between sniffles.

“No, it's a great story!” you reply. “Here, it goes like this...”

You start telling them the story, even acting it out for them, and by the time you get to the part where the Huntress tricks the nasty cholerbear and steals his tail, they're all enraptured. They laugh at the silly scalebeast who accidentally eats her own tail, and they gasp in shock when the Huntress gets ambushed by underhanded cacklebeasts, and they clap their hands when she triumphs.

By the time you reach the end of the story, all their eyes are dry, and the younger ones are starting to droop off. It's not quite dawn yet, but nights are long this time of the sweep and it's well past the time they should be asleep.

You herd them off to the caves and make sure to bundle them up warmly in their makeshift recuperacoons. You lost one of your cubs early on to the cold, and you've been very cautious ever since.

Delric turns to you before settling down to sleep and asks, “Nepeta, was that story about you? Are you the Huntress?”

You pat his head lightly, and hold back a chuckle.

“Yes, I am the mighty Huntress,” you say. “Now go to sleep!”

He nods gravely, like you've just imparted a great secret, and then he's asleep the moment he curls up in his recuperacoon.

You sit outside the mouth of the cave for a while longer, looking at constellations, thinking of Gamzee, but eventually you go back inside, to your cubs. You curl up with them, and they settle against you, clinging close throughout the day.


	3. The Lawmaker

The tent smells of stale sweat and sheepishness. The few dozen trolls crowded inside shuffle against each other uncomfortably, but they don't come any closer to you than necessary. They treat the circle of light around you like a physical barrier, as if something would swallow them up if they stepped into it. Good, you think. You expect no less.

They were uncertain how to treat you, when you first arrived. Perhaps they would have been far less respectful had you not flown down on a dragon, but as it were, the pale-faced clan leaders were quick to give you use of the main tent. You approve. The main tent is imposing, and it sets the right tone for what will follow.

The crowd parts, and the accused walks towards you with his head held high and his shoulders tense. He is clad in furs and pride.

You open your mouth and inhale. You needn't have, his guilt hangs heavy and sour about him, even though he tries to hide it under a veneer of calm.

“You have been brought to me under heavy accusations,” you intone. “What is your name?”

He puffs his chest as much as he dares.

“Mendro Ikalli,” he says. “And I have done nothing wrong.”

Oh, my, my, my. Mr. Ikalli, he thinks he is not in the wrong. Outwardly, you only stare him down with blank red eyes until he drops his gaze.

But you can tell he's going to be a prattler. You do so dislike prattlers; they always try their best to derail these proceedings, and you are trying to establish a tradition here, dammit. A ritual. Rituals seldom involve the participants nagging other trolls' earstubs off.

“You will limit yourself to answering my questions in as few words as possible. Do you know what the accusations are?” you ask.

“I do.”

“Who testifies against him?” you say, turning your face to the other trolls in the tent.

A green-blood elbows her way to the front of the crowd. Her eyes are swollen from crying, and her fangs are bared.

“I do!” she says, loud enough to make the trolls around her flinch. “I accuse him! He's a murderer!”

Murmurs and feet-shuffling ensues. It's an awkward situation, very awkward, yes, but it is their fault that it is so. The murderer is not the only one to be punished tonight. By the end, you will shame them all for the role they played in these absurd events.

“Identify yourself for the court,” you order.

“Rimani Rennan,” she replies. “I was Engdar's moirail—Engdar Tivaim, the one Ikalli murdered.” She says the last word in a hissing whisper, glaring daggers at Mendro Ikalli's back. He only straightens his back more, keeping his face away from her.

You nod and gesture for her to stand to the left side. She obeys, though you can smell how tense she is. Her fists clench and unclench constantly. She yearns for revenge, but you hope for her sake that justice will be enough to sate her.

“Who testifies in defense of the accused?” you ask.

More shuffling. The cottony smell of sheepishness accentuates.

“I will,” a sedate voice comes. A tall troll woman, an elder blueblood, steps forwards. Her blood is only a shade off from that of the accused, and you do not like the smell of it. Too much blueberry-scented pride stinking up the air.

“Identify yourself for the court.”

“Akripa Ferido, the Mendro Ikalli's matesprit.”

“She was there too,” Rimani Rennan hissed.

“Quiet!” you yell, and the whole tent obeys your order. Rimani Rennan freezes, staring at you with a betrayed look on her face. “Miss Rennan, nobody speaks unless I ask them a question. That is how things will be done tonight. Is that clear?”

She nods quietly, and drops her gaze to the ground. She looks too exhausted for anger, but perhaps that is the only thing keeping her upright in the face of losing her moirail.

“You all three were there when the incident took place, then?” you ask.

“She wasn't,” Rimani Rennan says, pointing to Mendro Ikalli's matesprit. “Akripa came after Mendro already stabbed Engdar.”

“He wasn't supposed to be there, it was his own fault,” Ikalli bursts out, and then turns to you. “Brownbloods are not allowed the hunt. It's not their place. He wasn't supposed to be there!”

“Engdar was a better hunter than either of you!” Rennan shrieked back, pointing at Ikalli and Ferido. “We both were! We could have brought back more meat for the clan than your entire party combined!”

“Silence!” you say, stomping your foot.

In the back of the tent, there is a sound of leathery wings rearranging themselves as Pyralspite stirs from her sleep. A gentle nudge to the psychic connection to your lusus was all that she required. The trolls fall silent, their eyes glued to the portion of the tent directly behind you, trying to pick out the dragon's shadow.

Pyralspite goes back to sleep, her movement ceasing. Everybody lets out a breath.

“You wish to say something, Miss Ferido?” you ask, smiling kindly in the woman's direction.

Akripa Ferido swallows dryly, but nods.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, Mendro is right. The boy Engdar was not supposed to be there.”

“Not supposed to be hunting in the territory of his own clan, you mean?”

“Yes,” she says firmly. She looks you in the eye unflinchingly as she repeats the word. “It was against clan rules.”

“Ah, but I do not care about rules, Miss Ferido. I care about the _Law_ ,” you reply.

“That's nearly the same thing, isn't it? He broke the rules. He was punished for it.”

“That is not even close to the same things, Miss Ferido, not even close,” you say, grinning from ear to ear. “Rules are petty things, but the Law is something entirely different. Rules are meant to make life easier, but laws are made in order to make life liveable. Do you think that your clan's rules are what ensures that another clan may not kill you? Do you suppose it is your clan's rules that stop cohorts from poaching your brooding ground and stealing away the wrigglers meant for your clan? Do you assume that rules alone will make someone uphold a contract or treat a prisoner fairly?”

Akripa Ferido purses her lips like she wants to argue.

“No! The answer is no, Miss Ferido! It is me, it is the Law that I have given to all the clans which ensures you can walk from here to the other side of the valley without your neighboring clan bashing your pleasingly ovaloid skull in! But here is the price you pay for safety, Miss Ferido. It is to respect my Law!”

Horror dawns on her as she realizes what you intend. Oh yes, she sees how this all must end. She has started fearing in earnest for her matesprit's life.

“And the Law, Mr. Ikalli,” you continue, turning to the accused, “says nothing of who is allowed to hunt. It only says that the punishment for murder is death.”

He looks stricken at this declaration, and turns to his fellow clanmembers.

“You can't let her do this,” he hisses. “She's insane, this isn't how we do things! I was in the right!”

There are more than a few frowns in the audience, more than a few nods. They have no stomach for death, these trolls. They were not witness to Ikalli killing the boy, and only a handful even saw the corpse. They are beginning to see Ikalli as the victim, which you will not allow.

The trial is only just beginning, however, and you must be cautious of the room. A dragon alone is not going to save you from an angry mob. Imposing the Law will not suffice. You must persuade them that it is in their best interest to follow it.

But by the end of the night, one way or another, Ikalli will hang. You can smell it on the air. Feferi is right, times are changing fast. Inch by inch, whether they know it or not, Feferi is uniting the clans, and your Law is but a small step in that direction.


	4. The Autocrat

The servants flutter around you like spooked featherbeasts. You're not angry with them, necessarily. All they know is how to follow, like proper land-dwellers. You're only angry with the mediocre pieces of shit you deigned to ally yourself with.

Now that you've seen the whole thing play out, you can say without a doubt that you despise your allies more than your enemies. Fuckin' unbelievable, their lack of vision. You have no idea why you thought throwing your lot in with those complacent assholes was ever a good idea.

Well, actually, yeah, you know why. Stick with your own, crush the land-dwellers' resistance. Show them the benefits of living under your protection. You had a solid plan, a strategy. If you'd kept at it, between you and the other two seadwellers on your side, you could have conquered the whole mainland within five sweeps. Maybe one or both of your allies would have even died along the way (you never know, war's chaotic like that, nothing personal), and leave more for you, but now you'll never know, will you?

“The white robes, Highness, or the red?” a particularly brave oliveblood asks, displaying both sets of robes for your inspection.

They're both fringed and decorated with embroidery in your purple. The bright red ones are much more elegant, but today it would send the wrong message. You indicate the white, and the servants swarm around you, undressing you of your usual clothes. There's a particular way the robe needs to be put on, wrapped around your body and draped masterfully, and you trust your servants to not leave a thread out of place.

Instead of paying attention to their work, you muse on your abysmal failure. You lost momentum too early on. Your allies decided that conquering a few dirtspeck cities on the coast was enough. They had a taste of the local cuisine, received a few tributes, and lost all sense of perspective.

You scowl, and notice more than one servant flinching at your expression, but you don't care.

The coast cities were insignificant, little more than glorified fishing villages. They weren't supposed to be anything more than a foothold. The real prize was inland, across the plains and tucked against the mountains. The biggest trade city on the continent, replete with riches and potential subjects. Even if the stories about it exaggerated everything ten times over, it would still be the biggest conquest of anyone in living memory.

But you knew that it would take all your forces combined to take it, and even then it would be tricky. With two thirds of your resources suddenly stalled, all that was left for you was to languish here, in these insufferable cities, constantly begging the spoiled princelings to get moving and continue on to your goal, like a pathetic lusus scraping at the door of a hive in cold weather.

So your enemies got wise, eventually, and figured out your intentions, and now you've even lost your laughable little cities. They sent their best general to crush you, and oh, how you got crushed. It wasn't even a fight.

Which is no less than those two wretches deserved—which is no less than _you_ deserve for allying yourself with those bloat-headed assholes—except for their last cowardly act.

They singled you out to deliver your surrender.

“You understand, Eridan? This was your plan from the start,” they said. “We were only following you.”

“Funny,” you'd said. “I don't remember too much a that followin' business happenin' anytime in the last sweep.”

There were embarrassed coughs and the pointed avoidance of eye contact, but in the end, you still got outvoted on the matter. There was an official surrender ceremony, and then a discussion of terms. A perfunctory ordeal, a mere technicality, considering how absolute your defeat was, but it had to be done, and only one person was really needed for the job. Of course, neither one of your allies desired this dubious honor.

So you went to your chambers to prepare.

Your servants finish fitting your robe, and as a hairdresser frets over your hair—which already looks fantastic, you think, but you're not opposed to looking even better—the servants present you with your jewelry box. More of a chest, really, but everything is arranged nicely, and you pick out your rings almost by rote.

You put rings on all your fingers, except for one. You were saving that finger for the Princess's sigil ring. When you stormed her city and declared yourself ruler, you would have plucked the Peixes insignia off her delicate finger and put it on yours, and then you would have mercifully spared her life to prove what a kind and thoughtful ruler you would make.

You've heard that the Princess is quite popular in her city, so there would be no point upsetting the rabble by killing her. On the contrary, you're sure you could have convinced her to sort herself away in one of your quadrants. Maybe the black one. It would be a kismesissitude that would go down in legend. You've never had a good and proper kismesis yet, only a few transient affairs to provide for the Mother Grub and satisfy your obligations to the jadebloods. You think you're ready to settle down in that quadrant, if you can just find the right troll.

You sigh wistfully at the last remnants of your tattered dreams, and leave that finger bare. As long as you live, no ring is going to replace the one you really wanted.

The servants present you with a mirror and you take a long look at your reflection. Every inch of you oozes regality, and you nod once. The servants collectively (and somewhat indiscreetly) sigh in relief.

You turn on your heel with a dramatic sweep of cloth and begin walking so suddenly, that it takes your attendants a few moments to catch up.

There's no use dragging it out. You know what you have to do and you're going to do it quickly.

The audience block of this city's central administration hive is not nearly as grandiose as you would like, but in this case, you're willing to overlook the lack of decorum. It's filled with a bunch of local nobles, not one of them higher than a cerulean, just to show what a disappointing backwater town this really is, and a few of the general's own men fill in the gaps. Guards, mostly, but also some high-level advisors and a priest of some sort, an indigo with the glassy-eyed look of a zealot. He's here to make you swear on all the old gods that you'll be a good wriggler and behave from now on. You're not sure how the general found out you still keep the old gods, but a lot of seadwellers do, so maybe it was a lucky guess. Maybe.

The general is sitting on the throne when you walk in, and he looks uncomfortable as all get out. It's a cushy throne, on top of a platform, surveying the whole room. You've conducted many audiences in it before, though, and you know it gets downright uncomfortable after a few hours.

This is your first proper look at the Champion, the Princess's iron knight whose prowess in battle and leadership have spread far and wide. You've heard about his blessed blood, bearing no color on the hemospectrum, and by the bright red of his eyes, you guess those stories at least are true.

He's nubby-horned and short, and he would look ridiculous in the gray armor he's wearing if not for the fact that the armor is not ceremonial. As you get closer, you can see every dent and scratch on it, even though it's polished to a shine. This is a troll who doesn't hesitate to go down to the frontlines and crack some heads. Impressive, though also very stupid. A general is supposed to stay behind the lines, with maps and a nice goblet of wine, discussing strategy like civilized folks. This whole inspiring the troops schtick is for lowbloods, who don't know how to exert their authority the way someone of your caste does.

The jittery tealblood high administrator is standing next to the throne, glancing nervously at the general. The general doesn't even notice, he's looking at you with a thoughtful frown. You're curious to know what he's thinking. You thought you'd look imposing, but compared to his stark armor, you just feel overdressed and exposed.

But no, you are a prince of the seas, a ruler born, and this little hopped-up error of nature is nothing compared to you. He only defeated you because of luck and your poor choice in allies. You have to remember that.

There are six steps leading up to the throne, and you feel bold enough to climb only the first two. Three would be your birthright, but the general's guards look twitchy as hell, and you're technically coming here with diminished status.

The high administrator clears his throat.

“His Highness, Prince Eridan Ampora,” he begins introducing you, and just as he's about to start rattling off all your numerous titles, the general waves a hand dismissively.

“Yes, I know,” he mutters, and the high administrator stops talking in order to gape at the general uncertainly. You never liked that midblood bureaucrat, so you try not to crack a smile at how disappointed he looks to have been brushed aside so brusquely.

“I assume you also know why I'm here,” you say, even though you haven't been given leave to speak.

The general nods grimly. “Do you yield?”

“I yield.”

“Are you here to discuss terms?”

“I am. Maps are in the other room,” you say, pointing to the private council chamber annexed to this very chamber. “I arranged for some wine.”

“No alcohol for me.”

“--and assorted drinks,” you correct on the go. One of the servants in the crowd is quick enough on the uptake and runs out the door to tell the kitchens.

“Have the paperwork drawn up, this won't take long,” the general tells the high administrator, and the tealblood nods sullenly.

He is utterly wrong about not taking long.

 

*

 

“I'm not giving you the southern beaches,” you repeat for the umpteenth time.

“I'm not giving you a choice, bulgerot,” he repeats as well, appending a new insult to the line.

“It's an indignity I won't stand for,” you huff, raising your chin.

“Why?” the general screeches. “Why? What's so important there?”

“My most valued holdings are there,” you reply, raising your chin.

The general flops back in a chair. He removed his armor hours ago, so now he's only in his pants and tunic, but it's not like you intend to attack him at this point. Even without the two looming guards by the door and the servants coming in and out, fetching maps and law books and reports and other trolls, you would have nothing to gain from such a move and everything to lose.

Your two advisors, bleary-eyed and just a bit tipsy, have given up on trying to interject in yours and the general's conversation. Instead, they've set up in a corner with the general's two advisors, and are discussing some mind-numbingly boring minutia that the two of you are too important to bother with.

“I don't believe you,” he says, scowling at a map. “The southern beaches are not only indefensible, but there's no arable land, no important resources, not even animals living there. The area's been overfished for sweeps, and from what I hear, the weather's a bitch. What could possibly be there that would interest you so much?”

He looks at you, suspicious, trying to glean your motives, maybe hoping that he can burn through your very skin with those fire-colored eyes. You've tried obfuscating and temporizing and distracting him, but you've talked through every other thing already, and the southern beaches are all there's left. You can't change the subject when there's no other subject to change it to. So complete and utter honesty it is.

“My hive,” you answer.

“There's no hive on the map,” he throws back.

“The first one. My first hive. Up in the rocks.”

“...Oh.” He blinks at you, completely taken aback by this answer. “Your wriggler hive was there?”

“Yeah.”

His face scrunches up in doubt. “But you're a seadweller.”

“Yeah.”

“And your hive was on land?” he continues his inquiries, raising his eyebrow at you like he has any right to judge you and your life.

“Well obviously I like the land a lot,” you retort, “since I tried grabbing it all for myself.”

The whole room goes quiet at once. All eyes are on you.

He stares at you for a long moment, before he huffs a laugh. It's dry and rumbly, and it doesn't sound mocking at all. He's laughing at your joke like he's your equal. Which he isn't, but since _he's_ the one who crushed _your_ armies, you're not in any position to nitpick. The rest of the room relaxes and a few brave souls even give a chuckle or two. The tension dissipates quickly.

“So can I keep it?” you ask.

“Yeah, you can keep it,” he waves you off. “Now have one of your servants bring back the other maps. You're going to show me just how much nostalgia is worth to you.”

“What?” you blink in surprise.

He smiles slowly in your direction, showing all of his dull fangs.

“You're not keeping it for free, Highness. I'm not in the business of charity,” he replies almost gleefully.

What! He wants you to concede other lands in exchange for your wrigglerhood home! He's a heartless lowblood fiend, and you tell him so, in very colorful language.

“Yes, exactly,” he drawls, completely unimpressed by your diatribe. “Now maps.”

The servants scatter to fetch the maps again.

You hate him, you hate him so much.

 

*

 

It takes nearly a full night and half a day until the negotiations are complete, which is something, considering that the general was only supposed to give you an hour to state your case before he took whatever he wanted.

By the end of it, the guards have been dismissed, the servants have already tidied everything up, the advisors have dispersed (other than an elderly cerulean who fell asleep in his chair and is now cheerily snoring in the corner.)

The general looks about as exhausted as you feel, but also victorious. You reached a compromise. You got to keep a respectable number of your holdings, and he got a few strategically-valuable new stretches of dirt. You sold your allies out completely, of course. If those guppy-brained disgraces couldn't be assed to show up for the negotiations, it was no less than they deserved, and you certainly derived a lot of joy from this situation.

You're having a drink to mark the occasion, the first alcohol either of you have touched, when you make a remark that in retrospect you put down to exhaustion.

“Has anyone ever told you you have a very punchable face?” you say.

The general blinks at you from under the fringe of his wild hair. He has a crooked nose, so someone's gotten there first, but he's a soldier, so that doesn't necessarily imply he has a kismesis. He's not the handsomest troll around, but after staring at his face for so long, you're finding a lot of things appealing about it.

“No,” he snorts, “but if that's true, then it explains a lot.”

You feel a smile spread on your face, slow and wide. You think, oh yes, he will do nicely.


End file.
